


Life Debt

by Jupiterra



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1990s, 2000s, 9/11, Bathroom Sex, Blood and Gore, CPR is a thing, Complete, M/M, POV Alternating, Romance, Suicide, Violence, War, no permanent deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-04-06 16:10:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14060604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiterra/pseuds/Jupiterra
Summary: It is 1992, 6 months after the dissolution of the USSR. Russia is nowhere to be seen, and the world is starting to notice. What will America discover when he ventures to a chaos gripped Moscow?





	1. Chapter 1

1992: Summer

Estonia read his newspaper, glasses framing his dull blue eyes. The quietly charismatic male looked up, interrupted by Lithuania's nervous pacing. It was becoming rather annoying.

“I'm not calling him, Toris.” The stubborn Estonian insisted with a shake of his bobbed blond hair. “I know he's... troubled, Eduard. But this is the third world meeting Russia has missed.” His brown haired companion fretted. Well, hardly a companion and more of a bother. Lithuania ran himself into ground so often caring for the other Baltic countries and Poland that he barely slept. Thus a sleep deprived nation on Estonia's door step, rambling nonsense about that vile Russian.

It was this need to be the care taker, the bigger brother, that was Lithuania's greatest strength and weakness. Russia, and Belarus for that matter, fed off this vulnerability like bloodthirsty wolves.

“Maybe I should check on him again...” the fidgeting brunet wondered anxiously, starting to reach Latvia levels of fear. How had the former European power had become so dependant on complete bastards for guidance?

“No. No you won't. He chained you to a chair last time while drunk. You can't see him. Sick America on him instead.” Eduard said with finality, putting his newspaper. Posture now tensing, the blond radiated self assured dominance in this time of doubt.

The calm exterior, an act of sheer will, was quite effective. Lithuania seemed to calm and finally sat, shyly meeting with eyes of watery slate blue. “Yes. America. He is most kind. He will be strong enough to deal with Ivan's... outbursts.” Toris agreed, soothed for the moment.

Estonia rolled his eyes, but the motion was obscured by the once again raised newspaper. America. A ticking time bomb of ego and nuclear ICBM's. It was only a matter of time before the brazen capitalist's sky high dreams crashed into the ground. Communism was never perfect, and largely unregulated free market was just as unstable.

Honestly, the Russian and the American deserved each other, lost to fantasy and impossible utopias.


	2. Chapter 2

“Oooh baby! Lost in your eyes! Like our shared sunrise! Oooh baby it's fate, it's destiny!” America sang loudly as he vacuumed his cozy beach house. The song was a mash of generic greatest hits and nonsense, reflecting the chaos of his home and life. Trinkets and state fair baubles dotted the hyper patriotic space.

An American flag in every other room. A portrait of an eagle soaring the heavens. A framed photo of FDR beside a hanging cross of Jesus. All of these things were important. These things were justice and the land of the free, the spirit of the peoples. Alfred truly couldn't be more proud of his home.

A blue phone sat on a stone table, one of the old rotary styles. Cell phones certainly were useful in small spurts. They were no longer the size of a brick, but only by a slim margin. They unfortunately held as much charge as rug static. The reliable rotary phone still had it's charms, elegant curves designed to be held and cherished.

Mid-verse, the honey blond's raucous singing was cut short. The phone rang, a heavy loud sound never to be denied. This line generally only rang if there was a political emergency or another living nation seeking his attention.

Gosh! No one had called him in weeks! Excited, Alfred nearly threw the vacuum aside in his haste to turn the electric device off. Snatching the receiver off it's shining metal cradle, the tanned male spoke with a sugar sweet voice.

“Amazing America here, land of the beautiful. How can I help you?”

“You sound very happy, Mr. America.” A serious voice replied. Not hilarious enough in a clipped accent, so clearly not Germany. That only left...

“Toris! Omigosh! I haven't seen a hair of you since Ivan's Soviet shit dissolved! How are you?” the super power greeted genially, oozing genuinely affections. America couldn't help but adore that dour little man. Lithuania worked so hard, and he was impressive with flattery when it was required.

It made Alfred feel like a god sometimes. The freckled nation could understand why Russia was so possessive of the nervous brunet. Did Germany feel the same about his plucky Italy? Ah yes, he must. Why else would the fiercely productive German keep that silly sweetheart around?

Was it love? No... never! Nations weren't _allowed_ to love. It was just a giant ego trip, a high Italy provided. It was no different than Alfred's cocaine addiction of the 1980's or Canada's chronic maple syrup abuse.

“... and It's been three months since he picked up the phone in any capacity. What if Mr. Russia is unstable?” a whiny voice tuned in, reminding Alfred he was in a rather expensive long distance call. He might as well pay a modicum of attention.

“So. You want me to beat him up?” Alfred offered simply. He hadn't heard a syllable of Lithuania's distress but it was probably Russia's fault. Everything was, or at least used to be. It was surprisingly difficult, coping with reality while having no one to blame his woes on.

“No. Just check up. He hasn't made public appearances since the dissolution.” Lithuania replied tiredly, an old man trapped in a teen's body. Toris very well was, nearly as ancient as parts of his old Russian master.

“Kay. If he does anything weird I'm going to beat the shit out of him though.” The American answered nonchalantly, checking his nails as he idled by the phone. After listening to a few polite partings of soft kindness, Alfred grew bored and hung up. It was probably rude as hell, but he didn't care in the slightest. That lovable postage stamp of a new, yet ancient, country understood he was a busy man.

“Braginsky... Going to beat the shit out of you!” Alfred sang joyously, pleased to have a new outlet for his unappreciated energy. Tomorrow he would depart, for adventure!

00000

Arriving at Russia's house had been a humbling journey for the American.

A thick miasma of depression seemed to hang over Moscow like rain clouds. The airport seemed in some slight form of disrepair, spare coloured tiles slipping weak blonds. This was an international airport for god sake! Didn't Ivan have any pride in his first impressions?

Passing through tired metal doors, this haze of disappointment had yet to clear. Despite it being the height of summer, the city was as grey as ever. Thin trails of chimney smoke riddled the jagged city landscape. Bursts of greenery lined the odd street, some wild and bushy from lack of trimming.

The taxi ride to Ivan's house was possibly the most terrifying part of his journey. The taxi, much like most things here, seemed ready to fall apart. By sheer force of the driver's will, the dangerously old 1970 Lada ripped through the congested side roads of Moscow at 20 km over the limit.

“So, what brings you to beautiful Moscow?” the old driver asked warmly. His gleaming smoke stained smile made Alfred question himself. Question this place, and how it could exist. Admittedly, Alfred had been absorbed with his bipolar attempts at paying off national debt. He flipped periodically between denying it and scrambling to make interest payments to China. This exhausting cyclical existence left little time for visiting others.

“I am here to see a work associate.” Alfred replied stiffly, his Russian somewhat rusty.

“Work! That is funny!” the relic of a taxi driver laughed in a raspy way, coughing sharply. Just as quickly, he took another long drag off his cigarette. As if breathing in the burning tobacco would clear his lungs. As if it wasn't killing him from the inside.

The heart racing ride continued, as Alfred clutch the edge of the back seat of white knuckles. He had to, since he had no seat belt to wear. Seat belts in the front had clearly been hand stitched and taped back together. He was going to die in this machine.

Three blocks from Ivan's huge stone mansion, government buildings were blockaded with marching citizens in unrest. A group of pro-communist protesters screamed and whooped around a burning poster of Yeltsin fluttering in the damp city air.

Finally, with a jarring stop, Alfred's new torture ended. The taxi stopped in front of a once exquisite metal gate, framed by chipped stone. The Romanov family seal was still outlined in rusty rod iron. Alfred had always found it odd Ivan chose to personally live in a reclaimed royal estate after going through the effort of killing them all off. It screamed 'I am a serial killer' on every emotional level.

Gratefully, Alfred climbed out of the shuttering dead trap. “Fare is fifty... fifty... uh...” The driver trailed off, lost for words as Alfred dug a few American ten dollar bills out of his wallet. He looked at those wrinkled bills like a thirsty man seeing water. Eyes wide, He silently accepted thirty American dollars. He clutched the foreign money desperately, as if it might flutter away.

“That's enough right? I don't have a lot of change. I mean-” Alfred was interrupted as the last ten dollar bill was snatched from his idled fingers. The taxi driver tossed harried goodbyes and took off like a rocket before Alfred could change his mind.

Huh. Maybe Alfred should have looked at the exchange rates before he left home.

Shrugging carelessly, Alfred walked up to the iron gates. Spotting an intercom set up on a wooden post, Alfred pressed the plastic buzzer. No sounds or interactions could be determined. Alfred pressed it again, frowning. Was this thing even working?

Peering underneath the poorly mounted panel, it was all very clear. Someone had stripped the copper wires out of the device, leaving a hollow shell. “For fuck sake Russia, really?” The blue eyed groaned loudly in exasperation.

The gate was locked, and just a bit too heavy to force open by hand. That was a blow to Alfred's ego, but he supposed it was once built to stop a dozen men. The rod iron barrier was still much easier to climb than the smooth stone walls. Ivan and his stupid walls!

After a bit of athleticism, Alfred was on the other side. As he strolled up the long driveway, he took in his surroundings. The grass was nice and trimmed, even if most of the flower beds were dead. This place looked more lively in the 1960's, when the gardens had been in top form. Some charming masonry work was starting to crumble at the edges now.

The front door was imposing, carved with two headed heraldry eagles. Time had blackened the edges but it was still breath taking. Slamming the bronze knocker four times, Alfred tapped his food impatiently.

After several more knocks, the freckled nation huffed in irritation. “Braginsky, open up! I'm not joking here!” he roared through thick ancient oak. No response came from within.

Grumbling under his breath, the superpower went to open the door anyway. It was unlocked, silently swinging open. Alfred hesitated, unsure if he should enter. Maybe this place was haunted by long dead imperialists!

Gathering his nerves, the tanned nation strolled inside and closed the door. It was dark and chilly inside. After opening a few lavish velvet curtains, light and colour spilled into the empty home. It had to be empty, to be this quiet. Alfred's steps on the creaking wood floor were the only semblance of sound, his breathing a lone cadence.

Sunlight revealed a splendorous home of marble, wood, and painted aristocracy. Admittedly, Alfred hadn't been to this house more than twice in the past 80 years. Each time he laid eyes on it, the mental imagery was breathtaking. There wasn't a speck of dust to be seen, banished and replaced with faint lemon scent.

The walls still bore czarist gilded portraits alongside USSR family portraits. A conflicting mash of devotions was displayed, Romanov and Stalinist relics equally maintained. This place was a living museum of sorts, furnished with tasteful furniture of a bygone era.

After being distracted by the rich architecture of the house, Alfred finally located a light switch on the wall. It didn't work. A lamp with intricate bead work was turned on, but nothing happened. “Really? Does anything work here?” he complained outwardly in frustration. The voice echoed in the grand space, spooking him slightly.

Miraculously, a candle was located a room over. Alfred hadn't had to use candle holders in forever! Exploring the large estate, Alfred casually smoked a cigarette as he wandered. Eventually upstairs, Alfred found Ivan's bedroom. Giddy to explore, he entered happily.

This room was just as stately as the 18 other bedrooms, all very impressive. On the bed was two neatly folded up uniforms. One was easily recognizable, a grand affair from that ball Alfred was invited to in 1910. The other was the still very common USSR commander coat, both hero of the people pins displayed front and centre. A note sat on top.

Tapping the last of his cigarette ashes into the candle holder, Alfred set the weak light source down and read the paper.

_Ekaterina, Natalya, I love you._

Well. That was brief. Flipping it over, there seemed to be no additional text. Rolling his eyes, the paper was tossed over one shoulder and swiftly forgotten. America pressed on, not bothering to look into the bedroom much more. Between Alfred's terrible sight and a flickering flame, It was not worth the eye strain.

Finally a bathroom was located. Grateful, the honey blonde put the candle on top of the toilet tank and relieved himself. After the fact, he went to flush out of habit. Only after did he recall the power was not working. Well, hopefully that nuclear payload didn't clog anything.

Alfred had explored almost the entire house! Where the hell was Ivan? His gross little car was still in the driveway. The only place after here was the garage. Alfred could smell the empty vodka bottles likely heaping in there from the kitchen. No thanks. Maybe the sneaky communist was hiding! Entertaining the childish though, Alfred giggled and pulled back a half closed shower curtain.

He then screamed and dropped the candle holder on the cool tile floor. Panicking, he dimly recalled to pick up the light before it burnt the house down, but couldn't stop shrieking for a few seconds.

Ivan Braginsky, the fearsome face of Russia and the fallen USSR, was in a tub full of deep scarlet water, paler than his own platinum blond hair. He stared at the ceiling with a slack expression, eyes in a resting squint. Those enigmatic purple eyes were glossy, but not dull.

“That wasn't funny! You scared the shit out of me!” Alfred squeaked, already unsettled at the possibility of a haunted royal house. Ivan didn't budge. “Come on now, no goofing.” the tanned nation joked, poking his once polar nemesis in the shoulder. That resting head of shaggy hair lolled to one side, unsupported.

“This really isn't fuckin' funny man.” Alfred cursed, shaking a limp shoulder. It was cold to the touch. No. No, Ivan wouldn't, _couldn't_ do the unthinkable. The tub reeked of dirty copper, like an old scab or an open wound. Checking for a pulse, one was found after five tries. It was a weak rhythm, irregular as if struggling to move tar.

Russia had tried to commit suicide in the bath tub and nearly succeeded.


	3. Chapter 3

Everything hurt when he woke up. It was a crushing disappointment to see he wasn't in the tub anymore, the rough rub of fabric bandages constricting his forearms. A voice, familiar and devilish, floated in like the ruby water Ivan last recalled submerging in.

“... Mattie! He's moving! My shitty cellular is dying but I'll call you back when I find a land line!” America's voice drifted by, cracked with wild emotions. It was alien and electric to hear, different from his usual radio worthy ego.

The room swam as Ivan turned his head, spotting Alfred lit by primitive candle light. It was dark enough, but the miserable Slav knew his own bedroom. Ivan tried to talk, but then realized it was a wasted effort. No one wanted him to talk, desired to hear him. The entire world had rejected his very existence since the very beginning, and it was only fair. His own people didn't want him, a soul broken.

The soft cracking of Ivan's dry vocal chords was enough to draw attention from the golden haired devil before him. Those burning blue eyes watched him, judged his worth. They looked disappointed. They had every right to be.

After all, Ivan had failed his people, Lenin, and the utopia dream of communism in general. All his efforts were never good enough. He wasn't good enough. As America neared him by the bedside, Russia prepared for his final judgment.

Strong hands gripped his semi bearded face, likely capable of crushing bone. Ivan gave into the touch, waiting for the final blow. A glassy eyed American sucked in a trembled breath, then spoke with sombre conviction like never before.

“Don't you ever do something that stupid again.”

Ivan, never flinching or looking away, waited for his punishment.

“I'm taking you with me. You can't stay in this shit hole of a country.”

Ivan said nothing, resuming staring at the ceiling. It seemed he would be inducted into servitude yet again. The weak and conquered Russian could only be hopeful America would be less cruel than Mongolia or Prussia.


	4. Chapter 4

“So this diplomat. He's okay now?” Canada asked over the phone, wrapping the plastic coated cord around his fingers idly. It had been a shock to be called at four in the morning, but five hours later, the wheaten blond was more prepared.

“Yeah I bandaged him up.” his younger brother, America, explained proudly.

“You gave him to the proper authorities right?” Matthew asked seriously. There was a long pause and a breath of hesitation on the other end. “Alfred. You didn't just steal him did you?” Another long moment was taken as confirmation. “You can't take people home and feed them cake because they look sad.” the older brother scolded softly, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Mattie, he tried to kill himself. I had to save him.” Alfred whined. Matthew could imagine it, his American sibling stomping and huffing indignantly just like England when he didn't get what he wanted.

Canada massaged his temples. “This is a serious problem Alfie. This guy... this Russian diplomat... whoever he is, he needs a doctor's help. He has an entire country to help him.”

“Fine! Fine! I'll give him back.” Alfred caved, irritated.

“I just don't want you getting in trouble with that Yeltsin guy. I don't know much about him.” Matthew soothed, dropping his harsher tone. That entire section of the world seemed terrifyingly unstable, and Alfred was brave just for visiting Russia.

“Yeltsin is a big softy. I'll be fine. Listen, I gotta go return this guy, but I'll let you know how it goes.” the brash sibling replied.

“Okay, just be –” The phone line went dead before Matthew could finish his sentence. “... careful.” he finished with a mutter. Lowering the phone to it's cradle, the pale Canadian chuckled. He expected nothing less from his spitfire of a brother.

Eastern Germany, once known as Prussia, strolled into the room. He was thinner and paler than ever, almost sickly. It was still a vast improvement over the near dead state he was found in six month ago. The second Matthew laid eyes on his old crush, a rigorous pancake focused therapy was launched. Maple syrup could fix anything.

“Hey birdie. What's up?” the deceptively youthful German greeted, putting an arm loosely around Canada. The polar nation shied away sweetly at the simple affections. Gilbert, being the persistent man he was, pushed the envelope and kissed Matthew on the cheek.

Blushing now, the lavender eyed male felt like he was melting. “Gillie, you're such a tease.” Matthew murmured, adjusting his glasses as they slipped. “I can help it when you're so sweet, and cuddly. Who called?” the German pressed on, determined to cook his host alive with feelings.

“Oh, um. My brother. He kidnapped a suicidal diplomat. I convinced him to put the guy back before anyone noticed.” The modest nation explained, leaning into the seated cuddle on the couch. Maybe one hand squeezed another, ever so softly.

“Only America would be so silly.” Gilbert scoffed, nuzzling soft wavy locks of hair. Oh, this did feel nice, to be touched so gently. Humming in approval, Mattie shuffled closer and gave a chaste kiss on the cheek. “I'm worried Alfred is doing something stupid.” he admitted openly, looking into those ruby red irises.

“Let him. He's a cool guy. He'll figure it out. We need to watch football. It's Austria against Spain now.” Gilbert declared with a cocky grin, giving Matthew a light squeeze. “Oh, Spain made it past the qualifying rounds?” he asked, genuinely interested.

Perhaps Matthew could afford to be distracted by simple human pleasures for once. So often he was ignored, or forced to bear the burdens of his family diplomatically. Giggling as Gilbert peppered him with more kisses, the faintly freckled Canadian surrendered to fate. What ever mess the bold American had brought upon himself, he would have to clean it up this time.


	5. Chapter 5

Alfred knew he didn't understand a lot of things, and was occasionally willing to admit it. This was one of those times. He had saved Russia from himself, from that terrible city. Yet the normally proud Russian had lost the ability to fight back or speak.

At first Alfred was certain the fool had cut his throat and damaged his vocal chords. He performed a thorough physical inspection, one Ivan did not resist in the slightest. He was a scarred mess to be sure, but most of it was older cosmetic mars.

Ivan wholly co-operated in going to California, packing his things quickly. When asked if he had any pets he wanted to bring, Ivan shook his head. A timid whisper of “Lithuania took the cat with him.” was heard as the fallen superpower avoided eye contact.

Those were the only words to be uttered until the long series of flights ended. So America stood before one of his favourite residences, a quaint beach house with a fantastic view of the sapphire blue ocean. It's fading white paint needed a slight redo, but otherwise the place was in top condition.

Ivan, still apparently broken, took in the view with glossy eyes, gripping his suitcase handle tightly. Alfred ignored this, tugging the sad lump of a nation inside. “So. This is my second house. It's my favourite. I was thinking I could just keep you here until you stop being so gosh darn sad, but your government will probably bitch me out before then.”

Ever more silence, Ivan's massive frame submissively curling inwards. It was unnatural to see the power house like this.

“I'll give you a tour. This is the entrance way... and this is the living room... I have so many movies here. These are my favourite vintage movie posters.” Alfred rambled, distracted by the pop culture clutter. The whole house was bright with big windows that drank in sights of the pacific.

Frowning at the lack of enthusiasm, the honey blonde ushered for Ivan to follow. “This is your room for now. I know the mattress will be too small, but we can switch rooms or something. I don't know, we'll see how it goes I guess.”

“I will have a bed?” Russia asked, a fleeting glance meeting with Alfred for once.

“Duh. Where else you going to do all that sleeping big guy? The lawn outside?” Alfred joked loudly, slapping Ivan on the back.

The taller ash blond flinched at the touch, turning pink as he hid in his scarf. “Understood, sir.” he answered meekly, looking ready to burst into tears yet again.

Raising a brow, Alfred was stumped. Ivan was referring to him as a superior now. This was weird, actually far beyond weird. “Just... relax for now. There's food in the fridge. You know how to eat. I gotta make a call.” When Russia nodded in subservience, Alfred grimaced uncomfortably and left the room.

Sitting on a wing chair next to the phone table, Alfred picked up the receiver and and started rotary dialing Matthew's number. After being switched over by automated services, the dial tone started up. He had promised to call back after all.

“Hey bro.” Alfred greeted simply.

“Hey. How was the flight?” Matthew responded in turn, no longer sounding like a drugged out zombie. 

“Good enough. I was thinking, take Mr. Suicide home with me. We're gonna bake muffins. Not good muffins. Maybe box mix. But it'll be fun!” Alfred revealed excitedly.

“So this diplomat. He's okay now?” Canada asked in that motherly voice he didn't know he used constantly. It was honestly awful, like being nagged to death by a grandmother.

“Yeah I bandaged him up.” America explained proudly. He had done a fantastic job, thank you very much.

“You gave him to the proper authorities right?” Matthew asked seriously. Alfred wavered, failing to respond. There was nothing he could say that would sound good without totally lying. “Alfred. You didn't just steal him did you?” Another long moment, and Alfred sucked in a breath. Well shit, he hadn't thought this plan out at all. “You can't take people home and feed them cake because they look sad.” the older brother scolded softly.

“Mattie, he tried to kill himself. I had to save him.” Alfred whined, huffing indignantly.

Canada's harpy ways wouldn't cease. “This is a serious problem Alfie. This guy... this Russian diplomat... whoever he is, he needs a doctor's help. He has an entire country to help him.”

“Fine! Fine! I'll give him back.” Alfred blatantly lied, irritated. He didn't like telling falsehoods to his best brother ever, but the topic was never going to get dropped otherwise. Matthew didn't understand what was going on. He hadn't seen the same sick and unruly Moscow Alfred had. Russia needed a hero. America _was_ this hero, right now in the flesh.

“I just don't want you getting in trouble with that Yeltsin guy. I don't know much about him.” Matthew soothed, dropping his harsher tone.

“Yeltsin is a big softy. I'll be fine. Listen, I gotta go return this guy, but I'll let you know how it goes.” Alfred dismissed this concern easily. The political figure was too busy drowning in his peoples depression and anger to notice Ivan was missing.

“Okay, just be –” Alfred hung up, not one for long goodbyes. The more polite countries took so painfully long to end a phone call. It could drive a busy guy like Alfred to madness.

Tenting fingers in contemplation, the impulsive American wondered what to do. Canada wasn't completely wrong. This was technically kidnapping the most important Russian diplomat to ever exist. Leaning forward, He caught a comical glimpse of Ivan attacking the contents of his fridge. Upon being being spotted, the Slav froze in position. His hand hovered over a bunch of bananas as if they were the biblical forbidden fruit.

“You can have as many as you want.” Alfred offered openly, amused. Ivan swallowed anxiously, then lowered his hand over the three yellow fruits. He tore one off the bunch delicately with bony fingers. He then vanished to parts unseen in the kitchen, skittish under his host's attention.

Curious, Alfred entered the kitchen. Ivan had made a colossal fruit salad, perfected with marshmallows and chocolate sauce. He was groaning mid bite, having already destroyed half the bowl. Ivan looked like a man at peace for a few seconds, until spotting the American. He recoiled as if struck, possessively holding the fruit salad closer to his person. The fear was thick in his every move, toxic and sour.

“I'm not going to hit you. You can relax.” Alfred promised, to little effect. Ivan was still completely defensive and mute, not daring to make eye contact. Giving up for now, the exasperated patriot retreated to the living room. Setting up the VHS player, a lengthy action film started playing on the TV. Mere minutes into the movie, Alfred passed out from jet lag.


	6. Chapter 6

Ivan was all jangled nerves, not knowing what to expect. This was the most bizarre servitude he had been subjected to in his entire life. And that was saying something right there.

After being forcibly wrenched from honourable suicide, Ivan was bandaged up and forced to leave the country. Between his death attempt and his vulnerable joke of a government, Ivan would only endanger himself by fighting back.

Wasn't that how it always was? No matter how much Ivan tried to succeed, he was always broken down and forced to serve. The battered Russian was so certain America would be a less severe Mongolia. The arrogant way he pushed others about, the commands he gave. The fact that he physically dragged Ivan onto the plane with out asking confirmed this conqueror attitude.

This smart conclusion was shattered immediately. He offered to buy Ivan ice cream after landing. Not having eaten the frozen treat in the last dying years of the USSR, the deprived ash blonde accepted mutely, with an uncertain nod. Perhaps he was to be used as a taster for poisons again, just like with certain soviet leaders and czars. That seemed logical. Only it wasn't.

The entire sugary dessert, deliriously delicious in it's rarity, seemed to be only for him.

America's admittedly elegant waterside home was modern day style and grace. It clearly didn't need a full time servant and cleaner, much too tiny with only two bedrooms. Was there something here Ivan was to retrieve? Was there a task he was to perform?

It became crystal clear what type of servitude the weakened Russian was forcibly inducted to when he was shown his sleeping quarters. He was given a bed as a prisoner for the third time in his entire life. It was softer than the German prison bed from WW2, plush with feather pillows and a springy mattress. The sheets were softer than anything the Romanovs or Soviet had ever given him.

The first time Ivan had been given such pleasing resting places, he was used extensively for sex. The thought wasn't a terrible one, given how fit Alfred was. It wasn't like his new master was ugly, or unbearably massive in the genitalia department. He was also unlikely to force his slaves into sex with other people, highly possessive of his belongings.

The real question was if the powerful American was going to rape him. Mongolia had been ruthless in this regard, and he hadn't been the last. Alfred flickered between being a charitable clown and a hard edged brute so often, Ivan wasn't sure what to expect. It was honestly more torturous, not knowing if or when he would be taken roughly.

The very last action that golden haired devil did was the most confusing of all. He fell asleep on his leather lazy boy recliner while watching a terrible film of death and destruction. Everyone with a brain knew you chained up your sex slaves, so they didn't run off.

At the very least, Alfred shouldn't have left Ivan alone in the kitchen with all those knives.

Given this opportunity, Ivan drew the most robust blade he could find from the wooden knife block. He then stood over the sleeping form of his forced captor. That freckled face was slack in rest, snoring lightly. It was time to kill him, just like all the other masters, and flee into the horizon. The hulking Russian's form tensed for this moment.

A halting thought stopped the grisly proceedings. America had yet to actually hit him, or do anything outwardly malicious. He was giving Ivan free reign of a kitchen, a kitchen with actual food in it. Glancing at the rich fruit salad Ivan wasn't done eating, his conviction died.

There was no food left at home, no electricity, and the water was going to be cut off soon. He had no allies, no money, and no access to his oil reserves. The only modern government the military power had ever known was gone, and he didn't know how to adjust. He didn't even understand how capitalism worked in the slightest.

Killing Alfred would accomplish nothing.

The quality of life back home was far too abysmal to compare to any of this. Sighing, Ivan resigned himself to comfortable servitude and put the knife away. Retreating to the wooden deck out front, he lounged with a sun hat and his fruit salad.

Savouring another bite drizzled with chocolate and marshmallows, he took in his new world with dreary exhaustion. The unspoiled beauty of the ocean, something rarely gifted to him, was undeniable. A few shed tears managed to escape his iron defences, an emotionless facade he had been wearing for 60 years.

Ivan should have tried to kill himself harder.

After eating, the dishes were washed and put away. The tired male curled up like a cat on top of his new bed, unwilling to change out of his stale blood stained clothing. That outfit had been one of the last things he chose as a free man. Laying on the bed was almost insulting. It's gentle comforts and lemon fresh scent couldn't kiss away the truth of the situation.

After crying silently and mourning the loss of his world once more, Russia drifted into sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

The lack of conversation was starting to crawl under Alfred's skin. The blue eyed patriot thrived on social interaction, and Ivan was being a total buzz kill. He spent most of the second day hiding in his room and crying. This was understandable, given the guy had tried to kill himself less than a day earlier.

The mourning was loud and messy, just like Ukraine's infamous emotional fits. After listening to stifled wails of pain for two hours, Alfred's cheerful breakfast routine was thoroughly ruined. Fed up with this foolishness, Alfred stormed into the room.

Flicking on the light, the darkness was banished. Unfortunately, it didn't take the smell with it. Ivan was in foetal position on the covers, reeking of old sweat and blood. His worn soviet officer clothes were stained and wrinkled.

“Get the fuck up! I'm not listening to this all day.” Alfred ordered, gently pulling the grieving mess of a man to sitting position. With Ivan's obvious distress, the normally rough American handled him like delicate porcelain.

“Prosti, I... I will go clean up.” The pathetic creature sniffled, wiping his snotty nose on the back of a soiled sleeve. Alfred cringed. He would have to wash his hands after Ivan started dragging his fat ass out of bed. Before those immensely sad violet eyes could water over again, the taller nation was tossed in the bathroom with a towel and a fresh bottle of shampoo. Having been rushed and careless in his movements, America felt a small pang of guilt.

He cleared his throat, sidling up to the plain wooden door. “So um. I have a few other shampoos if you don't like the scent of this one” he offered through the barrier

After a minute, the door swung wide open. Ivan was already stripped down to nothing but his birthday suit, not a speck of shame evident. “This one is too strong.” The oblivious man noted, handing the hair product back.

Feeling a few degrees hotter, Alfred looked anywhere else but his guest. “I have the other bottles in the closet over there.” he loosely gestured down the hall. The Russian was off in a second, passing two massive windows than pausing in from of another as he browsed the storage closet.

A passerby from outside stopped and stared as he read bottle labels. Ivan paused his reading, and cranked open a window. “Good morning!” he called out politely, making the stranger blanch and flee. As Alfred hid his reddened face in his palms, his guest settled on a blue bottle and returning to the shower. He didn't close the door.

Closing the door, Alfred swallowed thickly. The flustered blonde hadn't planned to get a frontal view of naked Russia burned into his brain, but it happened. He needed to watch so many movies to wipe that out. If the revealing image could be erased at all.

After playing with a rubix cube to distract himself, Alfred saw a clean dressed Russian march in dutifully as if waiting for orders. He actually looked great, aside from that hideous patchy beard of his. Unable to grow anything beyond a moustache himself, America could sympathize.

“Sit. I'm chopping that ugly beard off your face.” He declared, unable to stand looking at it any longer. Hauling a chair from the kitchen, Ivan silently obeyed. Once again he was infinitely depressed, royal purple eyes dull from dark emotions.

Ivan would probably cut himself if left alone with a shaving razor anyway.

“Are you gonna tell me why you're so sad? I'm not really good at this feelings stuff.” Alfred prompted as he retrieved the shaving cream and razor. No response. The itch for socialization went unscratched, plaguing his thoughts. “I'm going to put on music then. I hope you like crooners.” The freckled blond said to open air. He popped open a storage cabinet in the unit holding up the TV. There was a plastic milk crate of vinyl records tucked underneath a lovingly painted record player.

Plugged in and needle set, the soft voices of a group called the Platters washed over the room, equalizing with the ocean and sea birds outside. It all melded into a relaxing atmosphere that the high strung superpower thrived on.

Carefully holding Ivan's pale face still, one side was lathered in preparation. Several slow strokes of the razor were performed, revealing clear skin beneath. Ivan seemed to shudder at the touch, eyes watering as he looked into Alfred's face, his soul. Old melody warbled in the room, from a lost age of art and decadence.

_Only you can make all this world seem right_   
_Only you can make the darkness bright_   
_Only you and you alone can thrill me like you do_   
_And fill my heart with love for only you_

Half finished one side, Alfred had difficulty ignoring the thick tears flowing. He chewed his lip but pressed on as Ivan let himself be held still, silently weeping.

_Only you can make all this change in me_   
_For it's true, you are my destiny_   
_When you hold my hand I understand the magic that you do_   
_You're my dream come true, my one and only you_

Finishing most of one cheek, Alfred reached to the table, grabbing more shaving cream beside the bowl of warm water. A broken voice stopped his measured motions. “Please.” a dissolving Russia begged, red eyed and sniffling. “Please, I can take being hit, and hurt, and told I'm terrible. But I can't take this.” his voice cracked as the volume rose.

“What are you talking about?” Alfred sputtered, utterly disarmed by the display of emotions.

“Just rape me if you're going to rape me already. I can't stand being given... given hope of otherwise.” Ivan went on, sounding utterly mad.

“Wha... What!? Why would I rape you?” The American replied in shock.

“You broke up and conquered my precious soviet union. Your military is stronger. As we speak, my citizens are fleeing or killing themselves. You won, America. I lost. I'm your possession, your slave now. You even dragged me from my home, proving as much. I don't... I don't have the strength or the money to flee.” Ivan pushed on, still crying.

“I don't understand... You dissolved yourself.” Alfred babbled, more confused.

“Because I went bankrupt competing with you! You pushed me and pushed me until I had nothing!” The unstable Russian exploded verbally. He paused, blowing his snotty face on a tissue. He spoke once more, upset as ever. “Now you're going to use me, fuck me, abuse me like all the other have. Drop this kindness, this lie, so it can be done with!”

Alfred was stunned, lost for words. After a moment, he pulled dizzy thoughts into focus. “I saved you. You were killing yourself. You can't die!”

A glimmer of that old bravado and ego surfaced. Ivan rolled his eyes, dully replying “You don't care about me.”

Angry words Alfred didn't know he had spilled out in an instant. “I do! I do you fucking idiot. The cold war got really out of hand! And we lost our tempers, and Stalin was a prick, and you were just so damn _stubborn_ about your stupid communism. But you can't just kill yourself! The world isn't the same if you... you can't just kill yourself, and I'm not going to let you! I'll chain you to the house if it keeps you alive!”

Ivan stood upon hearing these harshly framed words, plunging depression switching to a tentative smile, tears never ceasing. “You... you love me.”

Alfred backed away, face reddening as he gaped. “I never said that.” he denied, compromised by a rich blush. Even the record player betrayed him, starting to play 'back in baby's arms' by Patsy Cline. Unwilling scooped into Ivan's vice like arms, Alfred's feet left the floor as he was twirled lightly around the room. “You love me! I am loved!” Ivan crooned in time with the upbeat song.

“I didn't say that! Put me down!” Alfred repeated, totally ignored as he was squeezed and kissed on the cheek.

“Oh I will be faithful in serving you, bringing you a world of delight and joy! My heart will never stray, unless it falls out. Then I will give it to you as a present!” the crazy nation went on, nuzzling Alfred's hair.

What had Alfred done?


	8. Chapter 8

It was now August, and Matthew was elbow deep in paperwork. Prussia had long since gone home to spent time with his younger brother. As fun as the former soviet state was, he was immensely distracting in every capacity. Aside from mind blowing, toe curling intimacy, he had also clogged up the phone lines talking to anyone on the planet willing to tolerate him. Behaviour Matthew would have shut down in minutes with his own brother was somehow tolerated and incredibly cute.

The result was almost a month of neglected bureaucracy after the lovable albino finally returned to Germany. Three hours into reading an investigation about his own leader dodging taxes yet again, the stylish rotary phone on his oak desk rang. It was a red and chrome device, a nostalgic gift from his brother in the 1950's.

“Hello?” Matthew answered shyly. He was surprised anyone had called his private number at all, since only a dozen people were aware of it.

“Hi Mattie.” a familiar voice greeted, less noisy than usual. The fact that Alfred was calling first was usually a grave omen. “I'm calling to say... I'm sorry, and you were... more right than me.”

Matthew took a deep breath, massaging his temples. He had a gut feeling, a small stomach ache forming about whatever his younger sibling had to say. “Just... tell me what happened, Alfie.”

“Well, you know that suicidal diplomat I totally saved?” the man on the other end started.

Matthew groaned.

“There was kinda... a huge miscommunication. He thought I was taking him as a sex slave. And I swear! I swear! I told him he wasn't a slave. You know how I feel about slaves.” Alfred was verbally back pedalling now, sounding upset.

“What happened?” Canada repeated dryly.

“The guy, he won't leave. He's eating all my food, and he just walks around nude sometimes. And I can't get him to leave, and I don't know what to do –” As America's anxiety increased, raucous laughter was faintly heard in the background. Was that the guy they were discussing?

“Alfie. Breathe. How long has this been going on?” the wheaten blond interrupted the cyclical panic, concerned. There was a pregnant pause, then a low grumble in response. “Words please.” he insisted again.

“... A month.”

Matthew dropped the pen he had been writing with, hearing it clatter on the tiled floor. “A month. You kidnapped a Russian diplomat for a month.”

“He won't leave! This is not my fault!” the other denied shrilly.

“I'm coming down, and I swear to god, if you are forcibly keeping this man, I'm going to kick your ass.” Matthew replied sharply, sorely disappointed.

The other didn't seem to catch the mood. Echoed conversation of “Fedya, you must see! Stupid man keeps falling down stairs! It is so funny!” was chased by more hearty laughter. “I'm gonna go. He's gonna spill vodka on the couch again if I don't catch it.” Alfred eventually replied, hanging up suddenly.

Putting the phone back in it's cradle, the Canadian ran fingers through his wavy locks. He looked at the phone, snorted a derisive chuckle, and stood from his plush office chair. Wasn't that the way it always was? Him coming to nag his various siblings until they cleaned up their messes? Wasn't England the father in all this? Wasn't he supposed to do something other than sulk about the civil war and drink tea all day?

Two days later was the best Matthew could do under such tight scheduling. Stealing a mental unstable diplomat was trouble, even more so because Alfred wouldn't admit who the guy was over the phone. Regardless, Russia was eventually going to crawl out of his cave, march over, and shove a fist down Alfred's throat for messing with his employees. That was a nightmare scenario no one wanted to see.

The flight to San Diego was swift due to napping, with only two connections. An easy ride in comparison to some European trips. The in-flight movie was terrible, but it helped drown out the snoring of his government appointed body guard, John. The guy was very agreeable, good with international relations, and packed more heat than a bonfire.

After an unwell Syria threatened Matthew's precious leader during tea, the company was always welcome.

Driving an hour north of San Diego, they pair ended up at Alfred's partially isolated beach house. Normally they would have met in Washington. Alfred had accidentally burned his capitol city house down making french fries, true to his English heritage. This vacation home was the base of operations for now. Not that Matthew regretted visiting. The view of the sandy beach was gorgeous, reflecting off the large glass windows facing the ocean.

Alfred was on the white washed porch with a book, setting it aside as Matthew approached. They met in a platonic and brief hug, a casual exchange between brothers.“I'm so relieved you're here. Who's this dude?”

“This is my body guard, John. This is my child of a baby brother, America.” Matthew informed with a smirk.

“You're only a few decades older, god. Stop waving that around. I'm taller and stronger, and better at stuff.” the honey blond scoffed with crossed arms. The harmless sibling rivalry made Matthew's heart lighter, knowing how good he had it with family. Most sibling countries had to kill each other once in a while. “And I'm Alfred Freedom Jones, or United States of Amazing, thank you very much.” the vain nation continued, his nervousness banished temporarily.

“The A also for adorable!” A hulking Russia chirped as he swamped the much shorter Alfred from behind. The visual was brain breaking, because the fallen symbol of the USSR was wearing purple summer shorts and an apron with a kitten pattern. Hugging America, clinging to him like an affectionate lover.

“What. What is going on.” Matthew asked empty air, as his bodyguard looked on silently with raised brows.

Russia's artificially sweet demeanour dropped as he gave a dead stare at the human. “I will explain, but he isn't allowed to hear.” Taking his cue, John replied “I'll stand outside and keep watch boss.”

Once in the lovely home, Ivan set down a tray of freshly made cookies and tea. As he handed a black coffee to America, he positively wrapped around the man like putty. Alfred just looked flustered and speechless at the behaviour, like a man unable to stop the tide.

“Are you here regarding the diplomat situation?” Canada asked politely, hesitant.

“What diplomat situation?” Ivan replied innocently.

“He is the diplomat situation. I didn't say too much over the phone because I didn't want Yeltsin killing me.” Alfred clarified. “Do not be sad sunflower. I will never leave your side.” Ivan assured, giving several unwanted kisses. The emphasis on 'never' was deeply unsettling.

“Brave sexy Alfred rescued me from the depression, the depths of hell, and brought me to sandy beach heaven, where the lights always turn on, the water is warm, and there is no giant rats. Is it not wonderful how few giant rats there are in this room. I do not see a single one!” Ivan explained in song as Alfred was about to speak.

“That is not what happened.” Alfred argued, pushing groping hands away from his lower body with a free hand. “He tried to kill himself in the bathtub, and I performed CPR, and he was so messed up I had to drag him home. That's all. He just hears what he want to hear.”

“You said you cared for me, told me the world would be worse off if I was gone. You professed your love for me, and how we will be married forever in kisses. My sunflower, my perfect American.” Ivan purred, blushing and smiling as he molested a very unhappy America. A very unhappy America that was blushing scarlet and staring a little too hard into his coffee right now.

“I didn't say half those things. You're crazy.” Alfred denied, sounding unsure of himself. Matthew knew his brother better than even Mexico, and saw through the protests.

Had Alfred had finally admitted his nearly two hundred year old crush on Russia? He was almost as bad at lying as he was at playing poker. Matthew often wondered if Alfred himself was aware of how he acted around the other nation, emotions getting the better of him with almost every encounter. Even now the younger sibling looked like he was going to die from blushing.

Holding in a laugh, Matthew smiled at the ridiculous situation. “Listen, Mr. Sov... Mr. Russia. This, _situation_ is none of my business. But your country is in chaos right now, and it will die if you do not return and unite your peoples into action. If they die, you will die. I think we can all agree death is something best avoided unless necessary.”

“I won't. All I know is imperialism and communism, and my people do not wish for either. I am a relic that nobody except my sunshine loves.” Ivan replied miserably, burrow further into his unwilling lover's touch. As if it could protect him from reality, from the millions of angry Russians that were his people right now.

“You aren't a relic. You just need to learn new systems. Try stuff out.” Matthew promised, using a gentle voice normal reserved for shy children. Never had he thought he would use it on communist mass murderers.

Ivan didn't say anything, but he relaxed considerably, tense shoulders drooping.

“You can even bring Alfie along to help you learn about capitalism. It's one of his favourite things.” Matthew added, snickering evilly inside. It was true though, his dear brother had yet to shut up about the topic for almost a century, driving England to not answering his phone. Matthew was ready to punch the oblivious American in the face if he brought up stock market chatter at two in the morning again.

With this incentive, Russia dropped his old stance entirely. “Yes. I will return home with my dearest perfect little Fedya. With his eventual kisses and his guidance, I will forge a new economy!” he cheered.

“That's the spirit!” Canada agreed happily.

“I will have the most powerful army in the world and destroy my enemies as a filthy rotten capitalism beast of death!” Ivan continued joyfully.

Matthew's enthusiasm wilted. “That's not what I was getting at...”

“I will show the world how fierce and strong I am, and I will sex my sunflower so hard he cannot walk all day! Yes! I have plan! I am excited! Let us go to capitalist adventures!” The larger nation whooped, standing and heading off to pack his things.

Alfred glared at Canada venomously, not saying a word for once.

“I got him to go home?” Matthew offered weakly with an open gesture.

America hid his face in his hands and sighed in blatant resignation.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story will be finished! Author has volunteered in too many writing events and is busy drowning for at least a month.

1997: Summer

Matthew sat in the backseat of the battered Chevrolet impala, clutching his tightly bound seat belt. He had every reason to as the car weaved through crowded traffic. The car's appearance should have been a massive hint, the body thoroughly dented and repainted five different shades of grey. Russia and America were up front, arguing to the point of distraction.

“I should drive. You wrecked my Lada, slamming into that mail box.” Russia complained bitterly.

“I didn't use the sidewalk as a passing lane, unlike _you_. It's not my fault there was a mail box in the middle of the road.” America replied as he whipped past a slower truck. They were going at least twenty kilometres over the speed limit. Behaviour that was only appropriate if one was trying to get to the hockey game on time.

“That's what the sidewalk was for! So you can go around the broken mail box! You are so stubborn!”

“I had right of way! That mail box challenged my authority as an American!” Alfred ranted, blowing clean through a red light as he did so.

“So you totalled my Lada?”

“I bought you another one!”

“On credit! That doesn't count! And why are we going so slow!? I can grow beard faster than this!” Russian railed on and on, as the speedometer climbed ever higher.

“Fuck fine! I'm taking a short cut then. Less cops.” Alfred agreed, still riled over the energy of their angry conversation. Cutting across five lanes with the wrong signal on, the insane blond sped the wrong way up a one way street, signal ticking impatiently all the while. The car never ceased its steady acceleration. Several mail boxes were clipped as the one way streets transitioned to lazy residential. The sound of obliterated metal and plastic seemed to fall on deaf ears as Alfred continued, barely avoiding running over a family dog.

“Very nice! Three in a row.” Ivan commented, as he blared the radio. The argument suddenly ceased as the two broke into howling unified chorus. It was the song “Don't go breaking my heart” by Elton John at deafening levels. This was hell wasn't it?

Canada had agreed to spy on the two super powers since they had never been regular guests at the world meetings. Germany had made it all seem so rational and sane. “Making sure they aren't being foolish” the man proposed. “It would be 100% safe.” he had soothed.

Matthew was going to die in this car. This was it.

“Don't go breaking my heart!” Alfred started, voice cracking from going too high.

“I could not if I tried!” Ivan sang in response, his own voice roughened to sandpaper by centuries of chain smoking. It was barely singing anymore.

“Honey If I get restless!”

“Baby you are not that kind!” Another burst of terrible low voice followed. Brakes squealed as Alfred blew past a stop sign, swerving at over 60 km into a crowded parking lot. Matthew stopped breathing a second as the momentum crushed against his chest. The seat belt was audibly tearing in all the chaos, each thread snap making Matthew whimper and pale further.

The second the car slowed to a slow cruising speed, A shuttering gasp fell out of a shocked Matthew. The boys sang off key, completely unaware of their passenger's terror.

“Nobody knows it!  
When I was down,  
I was your clown!  
Nobody knows it, nobody knows it!  
But right from the start,  
I gave you my heart,  
I gave you my heart!”

As the song finished, Alfred found a parking spot. Wedging in into a narrow space just crooked enough to cause future problems, the younger brother killed the ignition. Ivan looked back with a crooked grin, violet eyes bright. It seemed an expression worthy of a mangy fox, proud of it's kill.

“I am glad you finally come to Fedya's American folk dances. They are very fun.”

“It's square dancing, Vanya. It's all fun, all the time. The assault rifle of fun.”

“Yes, yes, but I will win the fun. Matvey, what colour of western cow man bandana do you want? I'm wearing red.”

“Like hell you are ruskie. First of all, It's cow _boy_ , and second, I get to wear the red one.”

“Why can I not wear the red. I look good in the red!” Ivan began arguing, yet again. It seemed to be the only way the pair communicated. Alfred snorted at this comment, likely rolling his eyes. “What is that supposed to mean!?” the Russian demanded, almost as if insulted.

“You know what it means. It doesn't matter. I got you a better one. It's extra Russian.” Alfred deftly dodged the topic, shoving a blue and red star spangled white bandana in Ivan's hands. The easily stirred ire of moments before washed away with a yellowed toothy smile. “It is very beautiful. Thank you.” the ash blonde murmured appreciatively, fastening the bandana on.

The interactions intrigued Canada. After Russia's blatant vow of “I will sex my sunflower so hard he cannot walk”, all of NATO was sweating nervously. Even after talking to Ukraine, another gentle soul like Canada, his jangled nerves had yet to be soothed. Claims of “He gets easily excited” and “He probably means nothing evil” were astronomically far from reassuring. Germany and Canada had taken it, very quietly, into their own hands. It was hardly even an investigation at this point.

The small gifts and friendly body language suggested an ongoing relationship. The bitter arguing and aggressive shoulder punches suggested they wanted to kill each other. It was a very conflicting image so far. German still lacked a conclusion after a year of his own efforts.

Unsure of anything, Matthew followed the pair into a busy looking public recreation centre. Prior to stepping inside, the American and Russian had looked utterly ridiculous in their semi-matching bandanas, cowboy boots, and jeans. Soaking in the lively denizens of the building, Matthew felt very out of place. Belt buckles and bandanas as far as the eye could see. The entire place dripped with distinctly western American charm.

Matthew stood out like a sore thumb in his vintage print T-shirt and camouflage shorts.

“Come on bro. I'll introduce you to the regulars.” Alfred offered, never giving a real choice. Dragged to a haggard couple that smoked more than Ivan, the leathery humans beamed at the Canadian. “This is Nancy and Landon. They are the meanest dancers this side of the pan handle. And this is George.”

Dozens of western dance enthusiasts, each more patriotic than the last. It was a cornucopia of country music fans and nostalgic couples, only a few under 30 years old. Just when Matthew was about to call a cab and escape the alien situation, a DJ started playing upbeat country music. The idling chatting masses began to activate and head to the generous dance floor.

“Welcome y'all!” was received with a smattering of cultist style “Howdy!” A live violin player started up with a stroke, followed by a guitar player and a willowy woman on a banjo. The music was bouncy and contagious, getting everyone in the spirit of things. The announcer gave commands such as “grab your partner, and swing around, now you're goin' on the town!” Everything quickly fell into shifting chaos as partners swapped constantly, legs and arms going everywhere.

A few bumped elbows later, Matthew was starting to get the hang of things. It was almost fun, even if he had totally lost sight of his little brother and Russia. Just as the wheaten blonde spun an older woman round, the urgency of that thought struck him. His mission!

During a comfortable lull between songs, Canada slipped away to the bathroom. It was the last place he had seen his sibling, and Matthew really needed to pee. Gratefully relieving himself, he heard soft whispering from one of the bathroom stalls. Tucking himself in and washing his hands, the pale northerner investigated tentatively.

Soft breathing was followed by a barely audible “I think someone came in.” It was that same voice, the throaty purr of Russia. There was a hitched gasp, then America whispering “As long as it's not Mattie, I don't care.” Distinctive wet sounds and jingling of belt buckles followed.

Covering his mouth to stop any screaming, Matthew sucked in a breath and crouched. Bravely peeking at the bottom of the first stall, there was two black pairs of cowboy boots close together and facing the wall. Two pairs of faded jeans sat wrinkled and bunched at the ankles.

“Vanya... you're so tight.” Alfred moaned gently, immediately answered by a feather light “Gentle, Fedya, we have to dance after this.” The incriminating slick sounds became more prominent, almost rhythmic.

Never had Matthew fled a building so fast in his life. Wanting to throw up, he kept running until he found a Krispy Kreme store a block over. The place was deserted for now, with an apathetic looking teen reading his phone screen at the service counter. The youth looked up, perking a pierced brow.

“You look like you're having a shit day, man.” the stranger commented dryly.

“I just heard my brother having sex in a public bathroom.” Matthew confessed easily, still shaken to the core.

“That's rough. You should order something. Doughnuts make you feel better.”

“Okay.” The shaggy blonde agreed, grasping for structure in this moment. After ordering three sugary treats to go, the broken Canadian gathered enough of himself to find a park bench somewhere. He didn't know where, and didn't care in the slightest. Plowing through a glazed doughnut or two, he felt vaguely better.

Calling Germany after wiping off his fingers fastidiously, the Canadian couldn't get those awful wet _sounds_ out of his violated mind. The looped moment was only interrupted when a very groggy Germany answered his phone.

“Vhat is it Canadia...” the sleepy authority groaned, obviously not fully aware. “Alfie is fucking Russia. I'm done. I'm sorry I woke you up, but I'm going home, and I'm going to wipe my brain clean with maple rum.” Matthew blurted out in a hurry, the urge to vomit returning.

There was a long yawn and a muffled “Nothing, go back to sleep.” in clipped German. After a few scratchy noises that Matthew guessed was fabric rubbing, Germany slowly replied “So... America and Russia, are... together?”

“Yes.” Canada hissed in frustration, his usually legendary patience short today.

“As in sex?” the other echoed again. “That is... Do you have proof?”

“I heard them going at it in a stall, Ludwig. I'm scarred forever. I can't even... The sounds are stuck in my head now! I'm never going to look at square dancing the same again!” the distressed male rambled, becoming increasingly anxious.

“I am sorry you had to witness that. But now we know for certain. I will have to talk to the other NATO members when the hour is not so unreasonable. I can send East over as a token of gratitude.” Germany offered, his transparency clear as day.

“Gilbert is driving you crazy again?” Matthew teased.

“He organized my filing cabinet by how 'awesome' each topic was. My files on Russia have... penises drawn all over them. Feli offered to change them into birds, but it does not make the papers more legible.” Germany sounded every bit like an exasperated parent right now.

At the thought of Gilbert and sexual organs, Matthew flushed and smiled. His heart always fluttered when he thought of the pale ex-nation. “I wouldn't mind keeping him company for a while. I've finished approving a lot of infrastructure projects, and I enjoy his company.”

“Thank you.” Germany answered gratefully. After exchanging further pleasantries, Matthew hung up and steadied his swirling thoughts. Sending a quick text to Alfred saying he had to go home, the male hailed a cab and escaped to the airport as fast as he could manage.

The further he could get away from public bathroom sex, the better!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I only have the utmost of sincerity and respect for this horrible event in history, so please don't rip my head off.

Ivan was irritated. After a lovely secret visit to his lover, he was impatient to get home. All the airport gates were on lock down and people were visibly crying as they watched television monitors at the crowded airport. Bored, he decided to investigate why. The burly Russian watched troubling news footage on loop, a head taller than the sea of concerned humans.

There was two smoking holes in the world trade towers where hijacked planes had smashed into the sides. A roiling fire was tearing through the upper halves of the buildings, a thick black column impossible to capture in one camera frame.

The horrified crowds shifted from sadness to fear, as skeptics finally entered into shock around the tall nation. Having extensive experience with mobs of angry or terrified people, the wizened Russian grabbed his bags off the floor. Quietly exiting the overwhelmed building, he hailed a cab back to Alfred's house.

The drive was quiet. With palpable apprehension, the human up front cleared his throat. “Did you see the footage? The attack on New York?” The terror was tangible in the air, thick and sour.

Ivan didn't really know what to say, so didn't say anything. He nodded and left it up to interpretation.

“Some people don't even know yet. Others think there's a third plane coming.” The human babbled anxiously the entire drive, knuckles white as they gripped the wheel. Ivan listened silently, glad to pay the fare and flee the conversation upon arrival.

Alfred's house was just as quaint as when Ivan left it two hours ago. The entire home, their secret home, was framed with roses and sunflowers lovingly planted by the couple. Digging out his private key, the northern nation entered the property. The curtains were drawn shut despite early fall sunshine trying to pierce through. In the intense gloom, only the pale flickering light of the television cast shadow.

There Alfred lay, bleeding heavily on the couch. The scent was cloying, like dirty pennies. With a gasp, Ivan closed the door and inched forward. “Fedya? Dearest?” he called out softly.

With no response, the concerned lover rushed forward and fell to his knees before the slumped figure. “Honey, sugar pie, kisses... please say something...” Ivan stuttered as he frantically ripped off outer layers and checked vitals. There was a pulse, but barely. That warm engine of an American heart was slow today, giving weakened beats against a blood saturated rib cage.

A massive gash in the younger nation's chest glimmered dark in the light of the television. With trembling fingers, the normally calm Russian retrieved a first aid kit and began care. No matter how much pressure and clean bandages were applied, the grievous would didn't seem to stop bleeding.

The American lay in pseudo-death for what felt like hours. Ivan didn't know what to do anymore, running out of first aid supplies and ideas. The phone was ringing constantly in it's novelty Garfield cradle. Rather suddenly, Alfred jolted into consciousness with a soul jarring scream.

Ivan fretted and glanced to the news coverage. He had scarcely been able to look away once it was obvious the plane attacks were linked to his beloved's health. Still screaming, Alfred writhed on the couch in agony as the world trade towers began collapsing.

Scooping the bleeding mess of nation into his arms, Ivan whispered soothing lullabies and rocked him. Soon the vulnerable American calmed, resting a silent weeping expression on Ivan's soft strong shoulder.

“I love you sunflower. I love you so much.” Ivan whispered, holding him close. As Alfred continued to weep and occasionally bleed again, Russia knew what he had to do. What he wanted to do. Ivan would have to be sly about it. Whoever dared to do this was going to die. They were not just going to die, they were going to be skinned alive, set on fire, and be forced to eat their own children. They were going to have their eyes stitched open, so they couldn't even blink as everyone they ever loved was given the exact same treatment.

But Ivan was already in very hot water with the European idiots. America had every right to murder his aggressors. All he needed was a little... _help._


	11. Chapter 11

Germany was concerned. It had been a month since the attacks on the world trade centres, and America still wasn't answering his phone or e-mails. The only communication was a brief text of “coming 2 meeting.” Despite this notification, the nation was fifteen minutes late.

There was rumbles of war as American media raged and sobbed on the world stage. But still, Germany was not certain if the superpower would actually do anything. Hopefully the forgetful blond would simply antagonize the responsible parties with financially crippling trade laws.

Ever smiling, Russia was being more creepy than usual. His aura of prickling unease was so powerful, even hardy China was fleeing to the other end of the table. That was rarely a good thing.

Doors flung open as America entered the room, all Hollywood smiles as he carried two heavy suitcases. A quiet Canada trailed behind with murmurs of “Don't move too fast or you'll rip the stitches!”

“Hello! Hello! Hello! So sorry I'm late! It was a bitch to get these into the building!” the American greeted cheerfully, emitting more frantic energy than usual.

“I was talking young man.” England protested, still in the middle of his presentation.

“Shut the fuck up and sit down before I shoot you, okay sugar?” Alfred replied sweetly, popping open a suit case. Canada paled and sat down, squeezing his chair beside Germany's. Most of the countries were bunched at one end in this manner. England huffed, but obeyed.

Sitting next to Russia, Alfred slammed down the other suitcase. “Can you assemble this dear?” he asked serenely to his now well known lover. “Of course.” Ivan purred, getting to work. As two military grade M16's were assembled rapidly, the charismatic male climbed on the table.

“Several of you either hosted, saw, or were the mother countries of the terrorists that attacked me. I understand, I really do. You're all jealous of how amazing I am, or how great my economy is. But all the same...” he ranted insanely as he pressed a fresh magazine of bullets into the black rifle. “I'm going to kill you now.”

It was said with such charm and confidence that it didn't seem real. Until America took aim and fired one shot into the crowd of nations at the other end of the table. The bullet found it's mark as Afghanistan slumped forward, head banging on wood from it's own gravity. His look of surprise faded to one of dull eyed slack jaw, as blood splatter from the shot peppered everything around him. France and several others made sounds of fear, like suppressed shrieks, as they physically retreated from the table.

Ivan looked so happy as he handed the deranged loon a hatchet, then sat and watched lovingly with clasped hands. America replied “Thanks hot stuff.” as he put the safety on, slung the gun over one shoulder, then approached with long steps.

The entire room, Germany included, pressed against the wall. The corpse of Afghanistan remained were it fell, soon laid on top of the table. Straddling the body at the hips, Alfred grinned enthusiastically as he stank the sharp hatchet into suit covered rib cage. He meticulously began chopping the middle eastern male up as he chatted casually. Gore splattered everywhere like red paint as people gaped in horror.

“So. I will go to any length to find why any of you don't love me. And I will ask your friends. That is, unless you want to help me. All anyone wants is to be loved, after all.” the insane nation prompted, stopping only to wipe blood off his glasses.

Germany was pushed forward by the others, never having seen America this angry since he dropped the bombs on Japan. The Asian nation himself was literally breathless as he pressed against the wall, more frozen than the rest.

“We will help you, naturally.” Germany replied in a fear cracked voice, feet turned lead as his heart pounded in his chest.

“That's so good to hear! I knew lots of people loved me!” the deranged former colony crooned. Dropping the bloody hatchet, Alfred hopped off the table and pulled the frightened man into a messy tight hug. “I was starting to think you guys were scared of me, but I knew! I knew you were reliable! Reliable ol' Germany. We're best friends right?”

“Yes.” Germany answered shakily, trying his best not to move. It may get him killed.

“Perfect. It's official. Upon the 7th of October, 2001, I declare war on Afghanistan. See you guys on the battle field! I'll bring snacks!” Alfred declared happily, letting out a manic giggle. He released Germany then handed his weapons to a genuinely happy looking Russian. The Slavic maniac practically skipped as he followed out his lover. 

Having dragged the partially chopped up body with him, Alfred's trail out was marked with blood and bits of internal organ that was beginning to fall out. The smell was dominating and terrible, causing Austria to throw up in a flower pot. “Holy shit.” Denmark finally whispered. Germany nodded solemnly.

Holy shit indeed.


End file.
